


Lickety-split

by Eeriel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, WIP, bk Sherlock is trying to lick john w/o permission, tiny noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eeriel/pseuds/Eeriel
Summary: Sherlock wants to lick John, so he creates the dumbest master-plans





	Lickety-split

**Author's Note:**

> I am by no means a skilled author: I do this for fun, and also whenever I remember or have time. Also this is like two years old XD Sorry, not sorry! Also italics don't crossover from Ever note (I write on my Ipad) but I'll fix It later. Also I'm not British, so sorry for errors XD

Sherlock wants to lick John.

Yes, you heard right.

Sherlock wants to lick John. Hopefully all over. If John is amenable. Or not, he doesn't really care.

But Sherlock feels that that last thing would be A Bit Not Good. But he reeeeeeally wants to lick John.

Oh, hell. He was going to do it. But he would have to orchestrate it so if things went south, he would not damage their sometimes precarious friendship. Okay. He could do this.

All he had to do was find something to make him...shall we say, loopy.

Loopy, yes. Loopy just. Might. Work.

 

His answer lay in cough syrup. Pretty non-addictive, common, and over-the-counter. Perfect for his plan.  
He went out on the pretense of visiting a local funeral parlor for excess body parts and popped down to the chemist's instead, grabbing a perfectly ordinary bottle of cough medicine.

Once home (and holed up in the bathroom), he then preceded to guzzle exactly 1/4 of the bottle ( the recommended dose being one tablespoon, which was about 1/4 of 1/4th the bottle, taking into account his drug history, and thus, his immunity to drugs, 1/4 the bottle was juuuust perfect. It was a ginormous bottle.)

Sherlock waited 10 minutes before exiting, and proceeded to act normally until he...couldn't. And hope for John, sweet sweet John, to notice.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was feeling very light. Floaty, even. Hm. He'd never realized just how curvy violins were. And Why were they made so painfully? The bottom edge of the violin dug into his clavicle, no doubt leaving bruises on his pale skin. Maybe if they made rests, like for shoulders or something...call 'em shoulder rests...for some reason, Sherlock felt he was missing something very important about that...

 

Sherlock stumbled in place from where he'd been senselessly holding his violin away from himself as someone would hold a kitten by the scruff. John noticed, only to grow alarmed.

"Sherlock? You alright?" He set aside his laptop, having already noticed a minute or two before that there was something...not quite right about the way Sherlock kept swaying even when he had stopped playing and had instead begun mumbling to his violin.

Sherlock's eyes, heavy with unnatural drowsiness, blinked slowly, once, twice, before settling on John's openly concerned face.

"Jawn, I don' really feel...well," the lanky, presently unbalanced, detective drawled to his blogger. His blogger. He liked the sound of that. His blogger, nobody else's. No one else could have him, John was his.

"Mine," he mumbled as John took his pulse before gently easing his violin and bow out of his loosened grasp before setting it aside.

"Yes, I know it's yours, Sherlock, I'm just putting it away, see? Safely." John returned to him, drawing back his eyelids and herding him towards the sofa. "Sit, you look as though you're about to fall over."

 

John was pretty sure Sherlock was stoned. There was just no other explanation. No fever, no chills, pupil dilation...eh, kind of normal, no bumps, bruises. Nada. What had the crazy git gotten up to now?

"Sherlock? Sherlock look at me-no don't take off your-why are you taking off your shirt? No, look up, Sherlock, no not the ceiling, at me. Look at me. Sherlock? Did you take something? Are you high?"

Oh dear, Mycroft would kill him if Sherlock was high, no doubt about it, but if it turned out he had, John would probably have to call him.

Sherlock's glazed eyes landed on him, and the man full-out grinned, like a cheeky schoolboy who'd gotten away with a prank. John frowned.

"Hi, John!"

"Sherlock! Where is it? What did you take?"

Sherlock swept a grace-less arc towards the bathroom knocking over a lamp in the process. The lamp screamed indignantly as it hurtled toward the floor, only to bounce harmlessly onto the rug. It started cursing at Sherlock for his clumsiness.

John strode toward the bath, already imagining what he would find. Oh god, I hope it's not what I think it is. He looked in.

Cough syrup? What-?

"Almost half the bottle, Sherlock? You utter twit! What were you thinking?!"

John stalked out towards Sherlock, where he'd proceeded to wilt sideways onto the cushions.

"My throat felt funny , and I wath coughing, and tho I took it. Took a quarter of a bottle of cough thyrup, Jawn. Jawn, I feel thrange."

"Why are you lisping, are you having an allergic reaction?"

"Mm-mm. Lithp when I take things with alcohol in them. Altho when i'm tired."

Nevermind that John found that particular trait absolutely adorable.

"Well, you've got about another two hours before this wears off. And I'm going to pump you full of tea until it does. Sit up, here."

John had busied himself with tea-making, mostly to help flush the over-counter crap out of Sherlock's system, but partly to avoid cuddling the man to death.

That's right, cuddle. The crazy man-child, who until now hadn't noticed (or feigned to not notice, whatever) his growing attraction to the eccentric genius, was as adorable as a kitten, all sleepy-eyed and pouty, staring up at John so trustingly as he handed him the tea, who hovering nearby to ensure Sherlock didn't spill. God, so cute. And since when had John ever thought the man cute?

John sighed. Sherlock would be the death of him, he was sure of it. Either that, or the cause of a full head of grey hair.

"Scoot," he demanded, almost flat-out laughing when Sherlock tried to do so and only ended up doing a useless butt wriggle, almost spilling his tea. John sat next to him anyway, waited for him to finish the cup, and then placed it on the coffee table before turning toward him, only to get a huge surprise as Sherlock dragged his tongue from the collar of his jumper to the edge of his jaw.

What the ever-loving fuck.


End file.
